


no light, no light

by nishtabel



Series: no light, no light [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Feral Dimitri, I have no excuse for this, Imprisonment, M/M, also dimitri has both eyes in this fic bc i couldn't be bothered, bdsm undertones, it was supposed to be PWP, so sorry if the plot is Lacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Claude keeps Dimitri as his pet, chained and leashed, while ruling Almyra. It goes about as well as you'd expect.





	no light, no light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unraelated](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unraelated/gifts), [asael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/gifts).

> warnings: explicit, mostly-consensual sex; dom/sub themes; brief descriptions of graphic violence; dimitri gets electrocuted a lot

It starts, as things so often do between the two of them, with an outburst.

Claude had been gentle with Dimitri lately—too gentle, he thinks now. When Claude had first taken Dimitri prisoner, he’d been nothing short of feral; he’d snapped and howled and bitten, killing four guards and injuring three others in the process. Even stripped of his lance, without any shred of armor, Dimitri had managed to wrest a sword from an unsuspecting soldier, running him through with his own blade before turning towards the others set to guard him. It had been a bloody scene, Claude remembers well: one guard had been headless, another’s skull crushed beneath a boot; the third, as far as Claude could tell, had been disemboweled a second before Dimitri had split the fourth down the middle. The guard who had run to find Claude had been missing an ear—“Bitten off,” he’d spluttered through split lips.

And so, Claude had put Dimitri in chains. He hadn’t loved doing it, but it had been necessary. Necessary, in particular, for _Claude_ to be the one to fasten the silver, gleaming collar around Dimitri’s neck, to latch each cuff around his ankles and wrists. Dimitri deserved better than dirty, used chains, or so Claude told himself; he’d commissioned Dimitri’s collar to be cast in mythril, cold and sharp to the touch, with the rune of Thoron carved into the latch. A single pull from Claude—for Claude would be his handler, he would trust no other—and electricity would light upon Dimitri’s body, forcing him to his knees in an instant. It was cruel, perhaps, but it was what needed to be done.

And for a while, it had worked. Dimitri, feral though he was, was a quick learner. Each outburst—each roar, each torn chain, each _bite_—was rewarded with a swift tug, a bolt of lightning coursing through his body. “An electric collar,” the blacksmith had said, clearly pleased with his work. “Suitable, for the Boar Prince.”

So they continued: Dimitri in magic chains, dressed only in his smallclothes and his fur cloak for warmth, tied to Claude’s hand at all hours of the day. It was a good arrangement, for a time.

But Dimitri adapted. He learned—just like in some twisted way, Claude had hoped he would. After two months, the shocks no longer surprised him, no longer suppressed him. Claude watched as Dimitri learned to weather them, to _ride_ them, to shut his eyes and loose his body as the electricity flowed through him. He watched the clench of his jaw, the straining of Dimitri’s jugular at his throat; the curling of his fingers into fists, the unleashing of an unholy _howl_.

Claude had expected Dimitri to charge him, as he had tried to do at the beginning; to throw him against the wall, all of Dimitri’s inhuman strength channeled through his body. Instead, as the waves had passed—as Dimitri’s body had shuddered, shoulders falling, fists unclenching at his side—Dimitri had glanced up at him, eyes wide and lost and _clear_.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri had murmured, voice hoarse with disuse. “I—I am not myself, I—”

And, against his better judgment, against every alarm bell tolling in his head, Claude had rushed to his side, hands on either side of Dimitri’s gaunt face. For a moment, he dropped the leash, and Dimitri had whined at the _clang_ of it hitting the stone floor.

“Shh,” Claude heard himself saying, “Shh. It’s okay. Hey, big guy, it’s okay.” Dimitri’s eyes caught his, an emotion Claude couldn't—quite—place—swimming just beneath the surface, held taut in the crease of his brows. “It’s okay,” Claude had repeated, because he hadn’t known what else to say.

That night, Dimitri had fallen asleep in Claude’s quarters, curled up in the far corner and wrapped in the dirty, matted mass of his cloak. Sap as he was, Claude hadn’t the heart to wake him, and had instead sent for the blacksmith to fasten holds in Claude’s room. After the night they’d shared, he couldn’t send him back to the dungeon.

So he had been gentle, Claude thinks. Some might say too gentle. The Boar Prince was his captive, after all; after all the men he’d slaughtered, after all the destruction he’d wrought, Dimitri surely deserved worse than a dungeon. Worse than a mythril collar clasped tight around his neck, gleaming like a jewel in the lamplight. Worse, even, than the lightning he had grown to weather.

But Claude had seen Dimitri at his worst—_seen_ him as he called for blood, screamed himself hoarse on the battlefield, running men and women alike through with his lance as their blood splattered his armor, slick against his face—and he had seen him walk backward from that ledge, too. He could learn to control it, Claude knew, he just needed Dimitri to trust him enough to show him how.

This is what Claude had thought, anyway. Until he had, perhaps unwisely, tested Dimitri’s control.

Now that they shared quarters, Claude had taken to bringing Dimitri with him everywhere he went: the kitchens, the gardens, the library, even the office. Earlier this morning he’d had a meeting with a particularly volatile ambassador, and, despite knowing his propensity to mouth off, had opted to bring Dimitri. Perhaps he’d meant it as a show of strength, Claude thinks now. Perhaps he’d simply meant to show off an exceptionally strong pet. A spoil of war. A prize, and a warning.

He’d dressed Dimitri for the occasion, of course. He’d commissioned an outfit all in blue silk, pants tight but flexible, shirt a loose tunic. He managed to wrest Dimitri’s cloak from him long enough to have it washed and dried, de-matted and combed. He’d even managed to get Dimitri a bath, though he’d had to do it himself, as Dimitri would allow no one else near him—and Claude wasn’t sure he wanted Dimitri near anyone else, either. As an afterthought, he’d had Dimitri’s collar polished, a thin strip of white fur adorning the edges. To cut the edge, he’d reasoned.

This was how he’d met the ambassador: Poised in his finest clothes with Dimitri at his back, a looming shadow. The ambassador had taken it as a threat, and Claude thinks now that perhaps he should have. Claude was the Beast’s handler, after all; one wrong move, one wrong word, and Claude could have him torn limb from limb. Not that he would have—probably—but it was important that people thought he could.

The meeting had started off well enough. He and the ambassador, a minor lord from one of Almyra’s port cities by the name of Lord Arin, exchanged pleasantries, spoke briefly of their respective families, and talked of trade. It had not taken long, however, for the ambassador’s gaze to find Dimitri, and when it had, Claude watched the ambassador’s lip curl into a sneer.

“Ah, you keep a pet, I see,” Lord Arin had said, clucking his tongue as though in thought. “This is the once-great Boar Prince, yes?”

Claude had nodded, offering nothing else.

“Hmm,” he had considered. “So this is your beast. I’m quite impressed, actually.” He began circling Dimitri, who, to his credit, had remained perfectly still, eyes trained forward. “Although, no one is particularly surprised to hear you lying with the Lion of Faerghus, half-blood that you are.”

Claude had been ready for it—had expected it, had grown up hearing it—but Dimitri had not. A roar that surprised even Claude had erupted from Dimitri’s throat just before he’d flung himself forward, hand catching the ambassador’s throat as he lifted him bodily against the far wall.Lord Arin screamed, kicking and flailing against Dimitri’s grasp, and Claude had paused just a moment longer to watch Dimitri lean in, teeth bared, a warning growl rumbling from deep within his chest.

“_Heel_, Dimitri!” Claude had bellowed, and to his shock, Dimitri had done just that. His hand dropped from the ambassador’s throat, the fat man crashing to the ground with a heavy _thunk_. He would have a ring of bruises tomorrow, Claude had noted idly.

Through a series of coughs, Lord Arin had said, “Riegan, if I may”—a cough—“I implore you to control your _bitch_.”

Dimitri had snarled but kept still, crouched with a single hand poised on the floor for balance. Claude tugged his collar, not enough to sting, but enough to warn him to _stay still_.

“Leave,” Claude had said to Lord Arin, voice deadly. When the ambassador had spluttered his objections, Dimitri had snapped his teeth at him, moving to stand. It was all the warning he had needed to get out.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Dimitri’s entire demeanor changed. He’d kneeled in front of Claude, head bowed and hands clasped in front of his supplicant body. “I’m sorry,” he’d said, barely above a whisper. The fur of his cape draped around his shoulders and pooled at his knees, dwarfing his body. “I—I’m sorry, I,” and he had _cried_—

As though in a dream, Claude had ordered Dimitri up, had had to pull his collar to get him to comply; he’d called in a guard in ordered Dimitri sent to Claude’s room, to be chained back against the wall. He had refused to let himself notice how sadly, how willingly, Dimitri had gone.

Claude had run for the chapel, a place he so rarely visited, but one he knew would be blessedly empty. He’d fallen to his knees, gasped and sobbed, in front of a statue of Saint Seiros, wishing that Byleth were still alive to offer him guidance. After that display—after Dimitri had nearly killed a man for insulting _Claude_—how could Claude face him? How could Claude walk back into his quarters to a broken, feral, _lost_ Dimitri, one who he had so clearly and accidentally trained as his _lapdog_?

Claude had allowed himself one hour before forcing himself to his feet, legs shaking but sturdy enough to carry him to his room.

Here, now, his door faces him down, pitifully ornate and very, very heavy. This had been his father’s room, once, Claude thinks. His father had used it for—for normal, kingly things, for midnight trysts with Claude’s mother, for escaping. And here Claude is, keeping a half-naked prisoner chained to his wall, dragging him around leashed and collared as a show of strength. His father would be ashamed, he thinks, to see his own son keeping the Crown Prince of Faerghus in shackles next to the fireplace.

When Claude finally opens the door, that is exactly where he finds Dimitri: curled into a ball, back to the door, in front of the burning fireplace. The guards had stripped him bare when they’d brought him back, perhaps to search for weapons, or perhaps, Claude thinks darkly, to look and spit upon the Beast of Faerghus, now reduced to nothing more than the King’s lapdog. Firelight catches the scars on Dimitri’s back, his shoulders, what little of his arms Claude can see; he’s lived a hard life, and Claude has hardly made it any easier on him.

Suddenly exhausted, Claude heaves a sigh and announces himself, padding quietly over to Dimitri’s curled body. Pulled in on himself though he is, Dimitri is still laughably large, scarred shoulders broad and honed for years by the lance. As Claude steps around him, he sees that Dimitri’s hands are bound in front of him, along with his ankles—they’d chained him as Claude had asked, but not to the wall. Instead, they’d stripped him bare, tied his limbs, and left him to sleep on the floor, without even his cloak for comfort. 

Anger rises in Claude’s chest and he kneels in front of Dimitri’s prone form, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Hey,” he says, trying to be gentle. “Dimitri, look at me.”

Dimitri does.

“I’m going to untie you, now,” Claude informs him, maintaining eye contact as he reaches for Dimitri’s bound wrists. “I’m going to touch you, and I need you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

Dimitri grunts before, a second later, nodding.

“Good,” Claude murmurs, soft. After he’s unbound Dimitri’s hands and before he can stop himself, he massages small circles over the angry welts at Dimitri’s wrists, keeping careful watch of Dimitri’s face as he does so. Dimitri’s eyes stay locked with his, but as Claude continues to massage him, slowly, his eyes begin to glaze over. Claude takes that as a good sign, pulling away only for a moment as he reaches for Dimitri’s ankles.

“I’m going to untie your ankles,” he says, and Dimitri nods, eyes half-lidded. Claude does the same thing for Dimitri’s swollen ankles as he did for Dimitri’s wrists; slowly, carefully, he rubs his fingers over old and new scars, trying to massage away the tight clamp of the mythril chain that had bound him. Dimitri relaxes, breathing a deep, low rumble, and Claude refuses to think about _why_ or _how_ or even _when_ they’d arrived at this quiet, unspoken treaty. It places them at an impasse, Claude knows, but he won’t—can’t—think about that now. Not while he’s kneeling in front of his own prisoner, hands pressed gentle and warm against Dimitri’s scarred flesh.

When Dimitri’s breath is steady, Claude leans away, allowing himself a moment to admire this Beast he’s apparently tamed. Dimitri’s hair has grown long; it curls at the nape of his neck, spreading over his shoulders in light waves. Claude notices now, he realizes, because he’d given Dimitri a bath earlier, in preparation for the ill-fated meeting with the ambassador. He’d led Dimitri, leash in hand, to Claude’s own bath, and scrubbed Dimitri down with as much force as he could justify. It had taken over an hour just to untangle his hair, teasing out mats with a comb surely not up to the job. Cleanliness suits him, Claude thinks—even after a near-fight and a tussle with the guards, Dimitri was still _clean_, still smelled of lavender oil, still gleamed pale and bright in the firelight.

For once, Claude notices, Dimitri’s brow is unfurrowed. Now his face lies neutral, expressionless, flushed by the fire but otherwise unmarred. It shocks Claude to see that Dimitri truly is as beautiful now as he had been back at the Academy. He sweeps a hand over Dimitri’s forehead as he wonders, honestly, how he could have missed it before. Even in his ferocity, even with his teeth bared and his pupils blown wide with rage, Dimitri is beautiful.

A deep, instinctual need to _protect_ rises within Claude, so strong he nearly misses the moment Dimitri presses his face into Claude’s hand. “Oh,” he says, stunned.

Dimitri hums, a deep rumble in the broad expanse of his chest, and Claude swallows. Dimitri’s eyes, previously closed, flutter open to meet Claude’s own, and Claude feels a blush rise unbidden on his cheeks.

“Dimitri,” he starts, right before Dimitri opens his mouth and catches Claude’s thumb between his teeth. “Oh,” Claude says again.

Holding his gaze steady with Claude’s, Dimitri presses the tip of his tongue against Claude’s thumb, circling slowly around the pad. Claude shudders, enraptured by this new—development. Dimitri still lies on his side, ankles tucked to his chest, but his face is turned towards Claude, lips parted around Claude’s thumb and eyes held fast to Claude’s own. Something fragile rises between the two of them, and, unwilling to break it, Claude remains as still as he can bear.

Dimitri’s teeth graze his skin as he pulls Claude in _further_, closing his lips around Claude’s thumb and—

“_Shit_,” Claude says, nearly yanking his hand from Dimitri’s mouth. The balance breaks and the moment is lost between them, Dimitri rearing back as Claude tucks his hand to his chest. “I—Dimitri, this isn’t—”

Dimitri doesn’t say anything, pulling himself as far from Claude as he can manage without getting up. He refuses to look at Claude, eyes instead trained on the ground in front of him. Claude watches as Dimitri hugs his knees to his chest, so vulnerable Claude can barely keep his heart from breaking for the man.

After an unsteady breath, Claude says, “We can’t—do this. I can’t. I can’t just—you can’t _do that to me_.” The words rush out all at once, a physical force against Dimitri’s body. Claude steels himself against Dimitri’s flinch. Another deep breath and Claude continues, “Dimitri, I know you must be—confused. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through. But whatever you’re feeling, whatever you _think_ you feel—about me—whatever that just was—it’s not…” He pauses, willing his heart to stop its pounding in his ears. “It’s not real.”

Dimitri doesn’t say a word, makes no sign he’s heard a thing Claude’s said. He remains still, curled in on himself, naked as the day he was born and completely, _utterly_, broken.

Claude stands with a final sigh, exasperation slowly bleeding to anger. Dimitri remains where he is and Claude barks a laugh, rougher than he’d intended. “I did this to you,” he says, biting. “I caught you, _stole you_, put you in chains and tortured you—I fucking _remade_ you,” he spits, “to be my lapdog. My—my bitch. Isn’t that what he said?” Claude’s anger is palpable now, written in every hard edge of his body. He whirls on Dimitri, suddenly infuriated by the sight of him so—so _supplicant_.

“Get up,” he snarls, in a voice so very unlike his own. When Dimitri fails to comply, Claude grabs his leash where it glitters on the floor and _pulls_.

Dimitri falls forward with a rabid cry, bracing himself on hands and knees before Claude. Electricity rips through his body, muscles spasming as he fights to stay upright. Spit puddles on the floor beneath Dimitri’s open mouth.

After an eternity, Dimitri stills. Guilt hangs heavy at Claude’s shoulders but his anger, still hot, drives it back enough for him to hold Dimitri’s gaze. Slowly, almost gracefully, Dimitri straightens up, tongue darting out to lick the spit from the corner of his mouth. Claude shudders at the flash of teeth, clinging desperately to the fury that slips so quickly from him.

Claude flicks his wrist to wrap the leash twice around the palm of his hand, pulling not hard enough to shock, but enough to clench the collar around Dimitri’s neck.

Dimitri licks his lips, mouth hanging open as he pants raggedly. A hand reaches to grasp Claude’s hip, and Claude pulls any remaining slack on the leash. “You don’t want this,” he says to Dimitri. He winces at how hoarse his voice sounds. Fear rises in his chest, close to unseating the anger to which he clings so tightly.

Unheeding, Dimitri leans forward, eyelids fluttering as he strains to swallow against the collar. A gasp escapes his mouth, wet and filthy, and Claude trembles. “Don’t do this,” he tries again, grip tightening on the leash. A jolt of electricity wrenches Dimitri’s body, and as Dimitri’s back arcs, Claude catches sight of the flushed, leaking cock between his legs.

“Oh, shit,” he whispers. _I think he likes it_.

Dimitri’s mouth is damp against the swell of Claude’s breeches, hot even through layers of fabric. Claude feels his own traitorous cock twitch in response, so eager at the sight of Dimitri’s—_everything_.

And, sure, it’s not like Claude hasn’t thought about this before. Not like this, maybe—not with a feral Dimitri on his knees, wrecked only by Claude’s hand, mouth straining to press against his clothed, aching cock—but he’d had his weaker moments at the Academy. In his more selfish fantasies, he’d imagined Dimitri coming to him at night, climbing on top of him and forcing him down against his bed with hideous strength—taking what he wanted without a care for Claude’s desires, rutting helplessly, hopelessly against him. Near the end of the school year, as Dimitri had come to resemble more beast than man, Claude remembered a particularly violent fantasy inspired by his mistake of observing Dimitri’s training. It was a fantasy he’d carried with him, hidden, for many years: of Dimitri defeating him in battle and mounting his body, pressing desperately inside of him and coming with his teeth at Claude’s neck—

The scene in front of him is different. History had shown Claude to be the captor, the conquerer; Dimitri had been escorted from the battlefield, beaten and bloody, forced to step over the corpses of his fool friends. The first night he’d been quiet, almost complacent, and that had been when Claude made his first mistake. The collar, and the leash that accompanied it, was made to ensure he never underestimated Dimitri again.

No. Perhaps this was not as he’d imagined it, all those years ago, but—

But now, _here_, in Claude’s own quarters, a Dimitri Claude has never known kneels before him, big hands pawing at his thighs as he mouths wetly at the straining bulge in Claude’s trousers. Claude forces a breath through his nose, choking against a moan as Dimitri presses the full length of his tongue against him. Unthinking, he reaches a hand down to cup the side of Dimitri’s face, arousal spiking in his belly when Dimitri _whines_ and leans into his touch, pupils blown and lashes dark.

As before, Dimitri moves his mouth to Claude’s fingers, a question hanging in the air between them. This time, Claude doesn’t pull away—not as Dimitri takes two fingers against his tongue, not even as his lips close around them, sucking. Claude feels his knees waver and lock, and he stumbles back against the foot of his bed. He hadn’t even noticed Dimitri had cornered him.

Dimitri’s mouth opens, head tipped back, fingers spit-slicked against his tongue. Claude thrusts them, once, and again when Dimitri moans, a vibration he feels all the way up his wrist. Claude watches him, enraptured, as he takes his fingers; he’s sloppy and half-dazed, mouth hanging open as he lets Claude—lets Claude fuck him.

Claude shudders, pulling his fingers from Dimitri’s mouth. He tugs lightly on the leash, bidding Dimitri follow him as he sits back against the bed. Dimitri does, almost without thought, and settles between Claude’s leg with an open-mouthed kiss to his thigh.

Tucking a finger beneath Dimitri’s jaw, Claude asks, imploring, “Are you sure you want this?”

Dimitri hums against him, nodding his head. “Yes,” he says hoarsely, and it’s enough for Claude.

“Good,” he says, and without any former ceremony, strips himself of his coat and shirt, tossing them across the room. He thinks he catches the slightest of smiles at the corner of Dimitri’s mouth, but he can’t be sure.

No matter. Meeting Dimitri’s gaze and holding it, he cups himself through his pants, erection already growing painful. “Wanna help me out of these?” he asks, and it’s meant as a jest, but Dimitri does it anyway.

His hands are clumsy against his fly, thumbing exasperatedly at buttons until they pop undone, and Claude is suddenly, oddly, and against all reason, charmed by the man between his legs. Finally loosed of the trappings of his trousers, his cock springs free, flushed and red as it stands against his belly. Dimitri licks his lips before leaning forward, spit-slick lips brushing the head of Claude’s cock.

Claude groans but pulls Dimitri back, clucking his tongue. “Pants first,” he says, and Dimitri growls even as he complies. Claude lifts his lips as Dimitri drags his pants from around his thighs, ripping them from his body before throwing them to the side. He cocks a brow, challenging, and shit, he really _is _smiling. As close as Dimitri can get to smiling, anyway.

“Good boy,” Claude says, half-teasing, unprepared for the way Dimitri’s cock twitches between his legs at the praise. Claude threads his fingers through Dimitri’s hair, already slick with sweat, and guides his mouth back to his dick.

Dimitri doesn’t need to be told—or, rather, shown—twice. He’s on Claude with a throaty moan, flat tongue swiping precum from Claude’s tip before he wraps his lips around the cockhead and _sucks_.

Claude scrambles, fingers scratching against Dimitri’s scalp as Dimitri’s hot, wet mouth pulls him in. It’s messy and sticky and loud, Dimitri slurping and gagging and moaning around the weight of Claude’s dick in his mouth, but Goddess, Claude doesn’t care. How could he, with Dimitri on his knees before him, collar gleaming so brightly in the firelight?

Finally, Claude’s cock hits the back of Dimitri’s throat, and Claude’s whine breaks high and loud in the air around them. Dimitri gags around him but presses down, throat rippling around him, and—

“Off,” Claude cries, ripping Dimitri’s mouth from his cock with a shudder. He keeps his grip tight on Dimitri’s hair as he gasps for breath.

After a beat, having stepped safely back from the precipice of orgasm, Claude looks back down at Dimitri. 

“Fuck me,” he says suddenly, arousal threading him like a needle at the sight of Dimitri’s swollen lips. “Fuck me,” he says again, before Dimitri can object, before he can pull away, before he can look back and realize the terrible mistake he’s made. He cups Dimitri’s face in two hands, desperation coloring every move, and begs, “_Fuck me like the beast you are_.”

Dimitri snarls and surges upward, toppling Claude back onto the bed. Even after pausing, even after forcing back his orgasm, Claude’s wound so tight he thinks he’ll snap if Dimitri doesn’t hurry, doesn’t touch him, doesn’t do something, anything, _more_. Impatient, Claude reaches for the oil he’d placed in his bedside drawer, largely unused since Dimitri had been moved to his quarters. Dimitri blinks, uncomprehending, and Claude can’t stop the laugh that bursts from his throat.

“Dimitri,” he says, as kindly and as sweetly as he can as he works a slicked finger into himself, “I don’t mean to flatter you, but no matter how badly I want you to _fuck_ me”—a gasp as he finds his prostate—“it’s not happening without a bit of prep work.”

Dimitri blinks again, one hand moving to touch Claude’s wrist as he fucks himself open. His mouth opens, shuts, a whine rising in the back of his throat. Claude chuckles, surprising himself. “I know we’re playing feral, and don’t get me wrong, I _do_ want to be impaled on your cock—want you to f-ffffuck me like a dog in heat—” He gasps again, eyes rolling back as he inserts a second finger. “But,” he pants, “you’re, uh, _big_, and—”

“Let me,” Dimitri says suddenly, rough and deep.

Claude groans, shuddering at Dimitri’s words. “Not tonight,” he says. “I’ll—I’ll show you how to do it, some other time,” like it’s guaranteed they’ll be doing this again. He grunts, scissoring his fingers to make room for a third, and he nearly screams when he feels Dimitri’s mouth on his cock again.

“_Fuck_,” he cries, bucking against Dimitri’s open mouth. “Fuck, Dimitri, you—”

Dimitri’s lazy about it, too, nothing like he had been earlier. He nuzzles the base of Claude’s straining cock, breath ghosting against pebbled flesh, and presses the breadth of his tongue against Claude’s heat. Claude’s rhythm stutters, fingers spasming as Dimitri drags his tongue up the length of his shaft, pressing flat against the slit and chasing the bead of precum that appears. Dimitri’s lips are still swollen, still red and puffed from earlier, and it’s with that thought Claude almost comes.

He kicks frantically at Dimitri’s shoulder, forcing his mouth from his cock with a _pop_ and a whine. “Sorry,” Claude says belatedly, chest heaving. “Can’t come yet. Gotta—_ah_, fuck—gotta have you in me.”

Any look of hurt Dimitri may have worn is replaced with want, with _greed_, and he surges forward to cover Claude’s body with his own.

“Oil first!” Claude yelps, coating his own fingers liberally before grabbing at Dimitri’s cock. Goddess, but it looks even bigger in his hands, thicker than his fingers could possibly prepare him for. He licks his lips, hole clenching as he helps Dimitri line up. Claude knows Dimitri won’t be gentle, even if he wants to be. Whatever he was before, he’s a man gripped by instinct now, a feral creature trapped in the body of a man. 

Claude has to remind himself to breathe as Dimitri presses the tip of his cock against his hole, unprepared even for all he’d stretched himself. Dimitri’s strength is no match for him here; even with resistance, his cockhead bulls into Claude’s body with little effort. It’s a burn and a stretch, and for a moment Claude’s mind goes blank, eyes rolling back into his head. He arches his hips against Dimitri’s own, crying out each time Dimitri manages to thrust a little further. Dimitri’s hands are on his hips now, thumbs digging in hard enough to bruise as his fingers grasp at his ass, spreading him open. A line of spit drips from Dimitri’s open mouth and Claude groans.

Half-seated, Dimitri pauses, eyes fluttering closed. _Goddess, he’s trying not to come_, Claude thinks dazedly. How long has it been since he’s been touched like this? Been touched at all?

A shudder races from Dimitri’s shoulders to the base of his spine, spurring his hips into action once more. His thrusts are wilder now, harder, and Claude swears he can feel Dimitri’s cock halfway up his belly. Clenching his fingers in the sheets, willing himself to relax, Claude matches Dimitri’s thrusts, crying out when he finally feels Dimitri’s balls settle against his ass.

“Shit,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Give me, uh. Give me a second.” He takes two breaths, in through his mouth and out through his nose, before wiggling his hips against Dimitri. He’s really done it, now; there’s no way he can say he didn’t want this, not with the Beast of Faerghus balls-deep inside of him.

After a moment, Claude taps Dimitri’s shoulder with his foot, spurring him on. “‘M good, now,” he says, and Dimitri needs no other word.

Claude feels a split second of panic as Dimitri pulls all the way out, abused hole clenching around nothing, before Dimitri pushes all the way back _in_, and _oh_, fuck, _shit_, Saint Seiros in Heaven—

Claude throws his head back and wails, stars sparking behind his eyes. Never in all his years—never with any of his previous partners—never even on his own, in the privacy of his own room—had he been fucked like this, like a man starving.

Dimitri’s teeth are bared, one hand still on Claude’s hip while the other one fists next to Claude’s head. Claude does what he can to keep up, to ride the incredible force of Dimitri’s thrusts, fingers scrabbling at Dimitri’s shoulders as cries out with each slam of Dimitri’s cock into his prone body.

He hooks a finger beneath the fur trim of Dimitri’s collar and pulls him down, pushing his face into the crook of his neck with both hands. Dimitri catches himself on elbows on either side of Claude’s head, snarling against his throat. A lave of his tongue is the only warning Claude gets before Dimitri bites down, canines sharp and dangerously close to his thundering pulse-point.

“_Oh_,” Claude groans, baring his neck as Dimitri sucks at the wound, a blossoming bruise. For a moment, Claude is lulled by the warmth of Dimitri’s tongue against his skin, before Dimitri growls and bites again, further down along the junction of shoulder and neck.

Claude’s orgasm grips him suddenly, wildly, _violently_, a cry tearing from his lips as Dimitri fucks into him, each thrust deeper, rougher than the last. Claude spasms, thrashes, arches his back against the bed and claws at Dimitri’s shoulders, ankles crossed behind his back to spur him closer, faster, harder. Dimitri bares his teeth, callused hand engulfing Claude's shuddering cock, and Claude wails.

“Please,” Dimitri pants, a low growl against Claude’s throat, “please, I need—”

And Claude knows what he needs, should have known it long ago, should have noticed. Panting, sobbing, slick with spit and sweat, Claude coils the leash around his wrist and _tugs_.

The result is instantaneous, just as it has always been. Dimitri arches and spasms, thrusts growing erratic as he howls, grip so tight at Claude’s hips he’ll have bruises for a week. Electricity courses under Dimitri’s skin and Claude’s watches it, knows he’s done this, knows he’s the only one who could ever do this to Dimitri—and then Dimitri is coming, an inhuman roar echoing from the walls as he spills himself inside the hot clench of Claude’s body. Claude rides him through it, hooks a finger beneath Dimitri’s collar and pulls him down, baring his neck already spattered with bite marks. Dimitri laves his tongue over where he’d drawn blood earlier, nuzzling at the curve of Claude’s throat as he pants. Large as he is, his body fully envelopes Claude’s, sticky with sweat and semen. Claude shudders at Dimitri’s final, stuttered thrust, his softening cock slipping from Claude’s overstimulated hole.

For a moment, they lie together, and for a moment, it’s nice. Claude almost (_almost_) forgets he’s bedded his own lapdog, a Beast of his own making. In a moment like this, high from orgasm and the thrum of electricity in the air, Claude can push that thought to the side, if only until morning.

Because come morning, he knows, there will be consequences. Come morning, Claude will have to leave this room, lead Dimitri in chains about the palace, look at his guards like nothing has happened. Like nothing has changed. Like he’s Dimitri’s handler, and not the other way around. Dimitri has fucked him, bitten him, _marked_ him, and now the rumors are true: Claude ruts with the Beast of Faerghus, the Boar Prince, the animal in chains that shadows his every move.

But that’s for tomorrow. For now, for tonight, Claude can close his eyes and pretend that, maybe, in another lifetime—another timeline—they could have been lovers, just like this. That he could have led Dimitri, whole and smiling, to bed, curled fingers in the thick of his hair and tugged him down, slotting together so perfectly like only they could. In this other timeline, perhaps Claude could meet Dimitri’s mouth with his own, take him in and ride him, slow and soft and tender. Perhaps Dimitri would have sucked bruises onto his throat instead of bite marks, his laughter tickling his skin as he held Claude in the afterglow of their coupling.

Perhaps they could have had that, he and Dimitri. But now, here in this timeline, it’s far too late for love-making. Here, Dimitri shivers at Claude’s touch, big body tucked against Claude’s own, eyes downcast and glazed. The scars that litter Dimitri’s body glow in the dying firelight, innumerable, overwhelming in their vastness. The Dimitri that Claude holds tonight is a shell, a beast in man’s skin, a feral creature only Claude could tame.

Dimitri is his, now. Claude _owns_ him, mind, body, and soul. Only he holds the leash that binds Dimitri. With that, Claude thinks, must come responsibility: for Dimitri, for their relationship, as twisted as it is. He is the King of Almyra, after all; if Dimitri is to be his lapdog, if he is to truly take upon that role, there must be privileges. An example must be made. Respect must be had.

But that, like the rest, is for tomorrow. Claude sighs, brushing the hair from Dimitri’s forehead, slick as it still is with sweat. “Thank you,” he murmurs, a thumb tracing Dimitri’s brow. “For this. For earlier. For…defending me.”

Dimitri blinks, pauses, nods. “I am yours,” he says, simply, and perhaps for tonight, he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm blaming twitter for this mess (find me @ nishtabel)


End file.
